


MTMTE Drabbles

by Scraplette



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, MTMTE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, bleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scraplette/pseuds/Scraplette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles centred around characters, themes and settings from Transformers: More Than Meets The Eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BLEEP (Cyclonus and Tailgate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching my Mother struggle with her new kindle inspired this little drabble. Enjoy!

Neither Tailgate or Cyclonus could really agree on how it started but there was no doubt as to when. They were in their hab-suite, a day or two after the spark eater attack, Tailgate was recounting Swerve's latest bar tale(complete with the exact explanatory hand gestures used by the loud-mouthed mini-bot) when they first heard the sound.

BLEEP

The pair paid it no mind since spaceships quite often made odd noises at random moments, but then they heard it again and again, and every three or so minutes after that. It didn't take long to track down the source of the Bleep, a circular, metallic object that would have fit snugly in the palm of Tailgate's hand if he'd been brave enough to pick it up.

Now, it must be made very clear that neither Cyclonus or Tailgate were stupid(stubborn and naive, most definitely but not stupid) However, both were bots of a bygone era and some of the modern day Cybertronian technology was taking some getting used to. The new wash-racks in particular had been a shock, did modern bots really need thirteen different types of scented cleansing oil?

They stared silently at the shelf where the innocuous object sat quietly bleeping to itself. "What do you think it is?" Tailgate asked, quietly, as if afraid his voice might trigger something within the device.

Cyclonus, on the other hand, glared at the device like its very existence offended him. "I don't care," he reached for the device, fully intending to crush it and put an end to this whole irritating ordeal.

Tailgate squeaked and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Cyclonus's in an effort to stop him. "NO! You can’t touch it! What if it goes off?" his words, rather than his actions, made Cyclonus stop.

"Off?" the larger bot asked, directing his scarlet gaze at the little arms wrapped tightly around his arm.

BLEEP

Tailgate, realising that he'd probably crossed a line of some description, jumped away from Cyclonus but made sure he was between the warrior and the potentially dangerous object. "As in off OFF," he paused, expecting to get a reaction from the usually stoic warrior. When that didn't happen he continued. "You know, explode!" he shrieked, more shrilly than he would have liked, and waved his arms for the added dramatic effect.

Cyclonus fixed Tailgate's arm with a piercing gaze."Is that your expert opinion?" 

“Expert?” Tailgate echoed, wondering what the other bot meant. He followed that gaze to the text etched into his right arm. Oh right! “Well, in my expert opinion, which is most definitely expert in this particular case, we... should probably go find Rewind,” the mini-historian had been quite helpful in explaining some of the more 'advanced' aspects of modern tech.

BLEEP

Cyclonus stared at Tailgate for what felt like the longest time. So long, in fact, that Tailgate was seconds away from contacting Ratchet or Rung when, slowly and with a strange air of resignation about it, Cyclonus sighed and reached past the mini-bot to snatch up the device.

BLEEP

“Cyclonus! We really shoul-”

“I will deal with this,” Cyclonus said, tone severe and leaving no room for argument as he marched out of the hab-suite and down the hallway.

 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Whirl had a good feeling about today. How could he not when, not even a few days ago, a ravenous spark eating monster had been roaming the ship, things could only get better from here! He might even get to kill something(or someone, he wasn't picky) before the morning was through~

His hadn't taken more than a few steps outside his hab-suite when something knocked against his foot and went BLEEP.


	2. Greater Good (Rung)

The Functionists Scientists, for Rung's benefit, had explained the procedure before hand, it sounded simple enough. By running a small electrical charge through his frame they would map out his neural circuity to better understand his design and, hopefully, unlock the mystery of his alt-mode. 

The hadn't lied but the reality was something he was woefully unprepared for. 

“You'll finally know your purpose!” They'd told him, excitedly, as fire ripped through Rung's systems, picking him apart one circuit, sensor and processor at a time.

He knew his purpose! He was a psychiatrist, a healer of minds, knowing the purpose behind his alt-mode wouldn't change that. A lost mech pained by his own mind and spark wouldn't care if you turned into a jet or a super-tank, not if you had a caring hand and a kind ear to offer. Why couldn't they leave him be?

He didn't remember being brought back to the guest room(guest, not a prisoner, they' been quite clear on that) but here he was, resting in a darkened room on a padded berth that did little to sooth his raw and aching systems, over-taxed and over-sensitive. He wanted so badly to recharge. To forget about today and what was probably coming tomorrow but his own muddled thoughts wouldn't let him. Memories of crooning platitudes from earlier resurfaced, making his tanks churn and his frame shudder with... fear? Disgust? Shame? Was it ironic that a psychiatrist couldn't word his own emotions? Probably.

'You'll thank us in the end.'

'Everyone's shape serves a purpose.'

'It's all for the greater good.'

“The greater good?” he exhaled with exhaustion, wondering what possible good could come from this.


	3. Connection (Rung and Cyclonus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chatting with Lyricality brought about this drabble. Please send all credit for Rung's Iacon accent their way.

It had started innocently enough, as most friendships do, at the bar. Music, drink and laughter were flowing freely and the general atmosphere was a pleasant one, nights like this weren't rare but were always cherished when they came about, especially when Whirl wasn't around to start a fight or two... or three. Cyclonus and Tailgate were at their usual table, simply enjoying each other’s company, when Rung, occupying the table beside theirs, laughed. A quiet little chortle that would have gone unnoticed if Cyclonus wasn't the ever vigilant warrior(and zoning out) as it was that soft, barely a puff of air past the psychiatrists lips as he raised his glass to drink from it, but still an actual laugh! 

The reason for the laugh? A joke told by Tailgate. Something about a lugnut and an unusual shaped hole. The thing that had piqued Cyclonus's interest was not the laugh itself but rather that Rung had laughed at all. The joke had been told in old Cybertronian...

For the first time since boarding the Lost Light(technically stowing away) and meeting Tailgate, Cyclonus felt a connection form. It was fragile, some would argue if it was even there, but it existed and it wanted to grow. Cyclonus would've confronted the Psychiatrist right there and then if Skids hadn't wandered over, pulling Rung into a conversation with that warm smile and easy-going nature of his. The moment was gone but that was the good thing about star-ships, one way or another a new opportunity was always around the next corner.

The next opportunity came a few days later when he was walking down a corridor towards the armoury. Rung was walking towards him, no doubt returning from his latest session with Fort-Max, and would soon pass him if Cyclonus didn't act now. _“Do you have any idea what I'm saying?”_ he called out in old Cybertronian, just as Rung brushed past his shoulder.

Rung stopped mid-step and turned to face the larger bot. “Pardon?” he asked, frowning with those impressive eyebrows.

Years of rigid self-discipline kept his expression unchanged, but the disappointment stung. “...Never mind,” Cyclonus muttered, switching back to Neocybex.

Surprise flashed across Rung's face just as he reached forward and placed his hand on Cyclonus's lower arm. “Wait! I didn't mean it lik-” he paused, lowering his hand when he was sure he had the warrior's attention. _“I'm not used to your accent, that's all.”_

It was more lyrical than he was used to but there was no mistaking the language being spoken. An Iaconian accent? No wonder Rung had fumbled at first, Tetrahexian was mostly guttural grunts and snarls. Iaconian, by stark contrast, was much kinder on the ears and throat.

Still... Hearing those words, even with their Iaconian lilt, helped to ease some of the spark-deep ache he felt. He would never see Cybertron, **HIS** Cybertron, ever again but this would do, for now.


	4. Drift/Ratchet For Lozalot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift/Ratchet drabble for Lozalot as a thank you for indulging my crack pairing XD just a bit of Dratchet fun, not meant to be taken seriously at all!

“What did you do?” Ratchet sighed, lowering his datapad just enough to fix a sour look at the ragged tear in Drift's shoulder plating.

“Oh this?” Drift inclined his head towards his shoulder, his tone light and casual, as if he was discussing the weather and not some horrendous injury. “I dodged when I should have ducked. It's just a little scratch. Hardly worth looking at to be honest, but Rodimus insisted I get it checked out.” 

The Medic looked up from Drift's shoulder and it could have been the ex-cons imagination, or the low lighting of the medibay, but Ratchet's expression seemed to darken. “Then why couldn't First-Aid see to it? He's the medic on-shift tonight.” 

You couldn't sneak anything past the old mech, his wits were as sharp as a scalpel and twice as deadly, but Drift had prepared for this. Just as he had organised his little 'accident' during his weekly training session with Rodimus, and convinced(begged) First-Aid to call in Ratchet. Depriving the CMO of his precious free time was a huge risk, it could potentially ruin everything, but Drift was betting that the crotchety medic would accept his perfectly prepared explanation, albeit reluctantly and with much grumbling.

If you're going to lie then flavour it with the truth, that way, you're less likely to choke.

“Well...” Drift lowered his voice, not quite a purr, seductive or otherwise, but certainly enough to make the other bot raise an optic ridge. “After Crystal City rebuilt my body, you're the only medic I trust to work on me since you've had the most experience with this frame...” he slowly crossed one leg over the other(voted 'Ships Best Legs' by the Lost Light crew, Tailgate was a runner-up) and rested the hand of his uninjured arm over his thigh, subtly stroking the metal and drawing as much attention as he could to his assets without being too obvious about it. 

_Go on, Ratchet. Take a look at my lovely, lovely legs. You know you can't resist._

It was true. Crystal city had upgraded his body, using techniques that hadn't been used in centuries, and Ratchet(and arguably, Preceptor) was the most familiar with the archaic tech. And Drift knew that Ratchet knew that. 

Ratchet sighed, again. “Fine, lie down.”

Success! Now onto phase three(of five) of Operation: Snapdragon.

Drift trailed his hand back up his thigh and propped it behind him, bracing his weight on the medical slab beneath him. “Actually... Maybe you could kiss it better,” he purred this time, upping his game.

“Kiss it better?” Ratchet stared at Drift like he'd sprouted an extra head. For a brief moment Drift thought his plan had failed, that he'd underestimated Ratchet and his ability to detect pit slag. The speedster was about to laugh and try and play it off as a joke, that wouldn't be too hard given his supposedly flaky reputation, but then Ratchet smiled. A smile that would have most mechs on their knees, praising Primus for allowing them to witness a smile such as this. 

“Like this?” he hummed, leaning close enough that Drift could count the the individual dents and lines in the Medic's face, even feel his breath ghosting across his plating. 

Drift nodded. It seemed his ability to speak had abandoned him due to Medic related reasons. He could only watchwhile Ratchet moved his hand and lips along his shoulder, getting closer and closer to the injury. He breathed in, just as Ratchet's lips pressed over the corner of the-

“FRAGING PIT!” he shrieked. White hot pain flashed across Drift's neural net. Starting at his shoulder and spreading across his frame until his armour was rattling and his fans were spluttering. 

He tried to scrabble away from Ratchet but the medic straightened up and, fast as a cobra, grabbed his wrist. “That's what happens when you put pressure on an open tear,” he snarled, all traces of that wondrous smile long gone and leaving a scowl strong enough to strip paint. “I ought to weld you face to your backside for pulling a stunt like this!”

Drift's mind was racing. He'd been prepared for rejection, had almost expected it, but to be rejected AFTER his advances were accepted was wreaking all sorts of havoc on his plans. “B-But-” he started. Only to be silenced when Ratchet pulled him forward(by his wrist) and crushed their lips together. Effectively silencing Drift's spluttering.

Drift wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted. If he was to give into cliché, he'd probably claim it felt like forever. In reality, it was over before his brain had even realised what was going on(something he'd kick himself over, later) and Ratchet was pulling back.

“Next time,” The older mech chuckled, ducking back in to kiss the corner of Drift's slack mouth. “Instead of elaborate schemes and attempting what you consider 'coy',” up came the fingers, curling to form air quotes. “Just ask.”


	5. Skids/Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy drabble for SkidsGetaway on tumblr. I hope it's okay!

“Bomp!”

Getaway rolled his optics, “What was that.” 

Skids grinned and lightly tapped his clenched fist against Getaway's solid chassis. “Bomp.”

Getaway snorted, an impressive feat given his lack of nose. “I thought you were meant to be a super learner.” he brushed the hand aside, clearly unimpressed with Skids' feeble attempts at bomping.

Skids nodded and threw in an extra bomp just for the sake of it. After all, practice makes perfect. “Bomp. Last time I check, yes,” 

Getaway crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side. He fixed his parter with the same expression one might use when trying to decipher a particular complex puzzle. A really good-looking, complex puzzle. With a smile to die for... ahem. “Well, it sure isn't showing.”

Skids' eye ridges shot up. “Excuse me?”

“All you're doing is hitting me whilst saying bomp,” he explained, feeling as if he was pointing out the blindingly obvious.

Skids looked at his hand then to his partner, then back again. “Isn't that pretty much it?” he asked, slowly.

“Oh no, my dear Skids,” Getaway said as he slung an arm around his partner's rather substantial shoulders. “A bomp is so much more than a word punctuated by psychical contact,” he nodded sagely, whilst wagging a finger in Skids' confused face. 

“To bomp,” he continued.” Is to condense an entire conversation, and all its emotional weight,into a single gesture. It transcends all forms of verbal and non-verbal communication.”

Skids laughed and wiggled free of Getaway's grip. “You're full of it,” he gently shoved the other bot, flashing that easy smile of his that he was so well known for. 

Getaway shoved back. “You're just jealous of my superior bomping abilities.”

Skids, not one to be outdone, playfully punched his friend in the arm. “Bomp! See it's easy.”

“You call that a bomp!” Getaway scoffed, hands planted firmly on his hips. “I saw no hint of the unspoken dialogue or the layers upon layers of hidden meaning,” he reached out and gripped Skids' shoulders. “What about the passion?” 

Skids grinned, again. But not just any grin. It was THAT grin. Getaway had seen that grin many times before, usually when the theoretician was about to do something crazy. Underneath the panic that filled his spark, Getway was happy to know Skids could still make that expression.

“So, passion is the key. Is it?” Skids purred as leaned in. His hands circled Getaway's hips, finally coming to rest at the small of his lower back. “That shouldn't be a problem.”

Getaway frowned. “Wait. What?” 

Before more thoughts could enter Getaway's head, Skids closed the distance and gently pressed his lips to Getaway's faceplate. “Bomp,” he murmured, softy against the warm metal.

Never in his entire life had Getaway wished more for an actual face. One with lips and a nose he could nuzzle with. Nuzzling always looked nicer with a nose. But even with his lack of face he could feel the heat and pressure of Skids' lips and it was exquisite. It reminded him of better days. Days when he could look Skids in the optics and not see confusion reflected back... Bah! None of that! Not when with an armful of warm and playful Skids.

Skids frowned and tried to pull away but Getaway stopped him. He caught his friends face between his hands and gently bumped his faceplate against the curve of Skids' cheek. “Hm...” he purred, stroking the pad of his thumb over Skids' bottom lip. “Better. We'll make a bomper out of you yet I reckon.”


	6. Blueprint (Rodimus and Perceptor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus has an important project for Perceptor.,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ramped up his egomania to 11 for this drabble but, my goodness, was Rodimus a lot of fun to write in this!
> 
> As always, constructive critic is always appreciated.

Perceptor reset his audials in the off chance he'd misheard Rodimus, even though the other Autobot was only sitting across the desk from him. “You want me to construct a... pod?”

“Ah ah! A Rod Pod,” Rodimus corrected, waving a finger at the scientist like a teacher chastising a student.

Perceptor blinked. Nope, he hadn't misheard. Unfortunately. “A Rod Pod?”  
“Yes, a Rod Pod.” Rodimus echoed, looking rather pleased with himself as he leaned back in his chair and flashed Perceptor a winning smile. The same smile that let him get away with so much, so often.

“Does Ultra Magnus know about this?” Perceptor asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

Rodimus shrugged. “I ran it by him, once or twice. Enough to get him to agree to it.”

If Magnus had agreed, reluctantly or not, to this little venture of Rodimis' then it was highly unlikely that anyone could convince the captain to change his mind. The only person that stood even a slim chance was Drift, and Perceptor doubted that the Ex-Decepticon would do or say anything that might upset Rodimus. A shame, really, as Perceptor could remember Drift before he'd fallen for Rodimus' charm and charisma. Perceptor suppressed a sigh. “I see... Very well, if I'm to build this pod-”

“Rod Pod!”

“Can you go into more detail?”

Rodmius' optics widened. “How much detail?”

If Perceptor had his way, none. No detail in the slightest. Because this latest fancy of Rodimus' wouldn't be his problem, at all. However, if Perceptor was one thing then it was thorough. A job, no matter how menial or beneath his skill, was worth doing right. He held his hands out in a an all encompassing gesture. “All of it. You keep stating that you would like a po- Rod Pod, but I fail to grasp the actual concept,”

“Hm? Oh! Yeah, that's fair enough. Got some preliminary blueprints in here somewhere...” Rodimus reached into the top draw of his desk and dug through its contents. A few items were pulled out and inspected, others put aside for some as of yet unknown reason, but eventually he crowed with triumph and held up high a nondescript datapad like it was the restored Matrix itself. “It needs a few tweaks here and there but I think I've got the bulk of it sorted out for you.” He tossed the pad to Perceptor then swung his legs up onto the desk, crossing them at the ankles as he slouched even further into his seat. “You're welcome.”

Perceptor hadn't heard much of Rodimus' chatter because the second he picked up the pad and laid optics on the 'blueprints' a white nose descended, flooding his audials and blocking out any and all sound. He suspected it was his own body attempting to protect itself from the steadily rising levels of stupid that permeated the room. The same thing tended to happen when Brainstorm was showing off his latest invention.

He wish it had taken his sight as well as his hearing.

Eventually the Noise faded, allowing Perceptor to finally find his voice. “It's your head...”

“That's a bit of an over simplification but yes, yes it is! I was trying to think of a visually striking design. And then it hit me!” He held up his hands and pressed thumb to index finger, creating a frame, with his face dead center.“Why mess with perfection.”

Perceptor could hear the white noise again, creeping into the edges of his audial range. “Yes, perfection indeed. But I feel the need to point out a few key issues with this design,”

“Go on...”

Perceptor held up the pad. “Firstly, these 'plans' look like they were created using the datapad’s basic graphic function, rather than an approved graphical design tool...” he pointed to the little icon indicating the program used to create the masterpiece.

“Pfft. All those options just clutter up the purity of my artistic vision.”

Of course, how silly of Perceptor to have missed such an obvious detail. He closed his optics and counted slowly to ten before moving onto the next problem. “Secondly, and most importantly, this isn't a blueprint. It is a crudely done drawing of your head with-” his frame shivered with disgust and horror but he forced himself to read the added annotation “'Super awesome rocket jets' attached to it.” Ugh, it sounded even worse when said out loud!

Rodimus suddenly took his feet off the desk and fixed Perceptor with a surprisingly seriously expression. Had his words reached his Captain? “Look, I know where this is going. I'm not stupid.” Rodimus said, voice filled with understanding as he rested his folded hands on the desk. An action that would have carried more weight and meaning if the desk wasn't covered in graffiti. “But I'm not a scientist or engineer. It's not my job to work out all the ins and outs and other fiddly details like that.”

“Apparently so.”

Rodimus grinned. “Yes, apparently. So I want you to take that away,” he pointed at the datapad clutched in Preceptor’s hand. “And make it a thing.”

Perceptor was about to launch into a lengthy and fully detailed explanation on how such a task was not only impossible but a complete waste of his time, when Rodimus' desk communicator started beeping. Without missing a beat, Rodimus picked up the communicator and read the message. “It's Drift. Seems like there's something that needs my urgent attention. I tell yeah, it never stops with this Captain malarkey. It's always one thing after another, and then some more piled on top of that,” he stood up and walked towards the door. Just as he was about to cross the threshold he turned around and gave Perceptor a double thumbs up. “Til all are one!”

“Til all are one?”

“Damn straight!” And then, with a twist of his heel and a flash of bright yellow spoiler, Rodimus was out the door and out of sight.

Perceptor took the opportunity to savour the glorious silence even if it did little to sooth his frazzled circuits. Slowly, reluctantly even, he looked down at the datapad and wondered if Brainstorm would be willing to take this little project off his hands.


	7. Amicable (Getaway/Tailgate and Cyclonus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getaway is looking forward to his first date with Tailgate. 
> 
> Cyclonus, not so much.

“Who's got a date!”

“I'm not doing this, Getaway.”

“... Who's got a date!”

“Getaway...”

“I said, who's got a date!”

Skids glared at Getaway from over the top of the datapad he had been trying to read. “I've read this sentence fives times. Will you leave me alone if I play along?”

Getaway's optics brightened with far too obvious glee as he nodded.

Skids put the datapad aside and crossed his arms over his chest. “Right,” he looked expectantly at his friend. 

“Who's got a date,” Getaway pointed at Skids.

His antics were just absurd enough to put a smile on Skids' face. “You. You have a date.”

Getaway struck a pose worthy of a Prime. Chest puffed, bio-lights flashing and hands firmly planted on cocked hips. “Too right!” 

“Although,” Skids drawled, reaching for his discarded datapad. “It is a date with Tailgate,” he tried to raise the pad only to have it pushed aside by Getaway who was suddenly nose to faceplate with him.

“What's that supposed to mean?” demanded the escape artist. “Is this about Tailgate lying to everyone? Because he came clean about that. It's not an issue any more.”

“Yeah, I know but-”

“It was really brave of him to tell the truth like that.”

Skids yanked his datapad free whilst also shoving his friend out of his personal space. “Yes, it was. But I didn't mean it like that. It's a date with Tailgate, who also happens to be the room-mate of Cyclonus. Cy-clo-nus,” he repeated, drawing out each syllable and, hopefully, giving the information time to settle into Getaway's brain module.

Something must have gotten through, because Getaway frowned with interest rather than confusion. “Go on,”

“And, he's quite protective of Tailgate.”

The change was subtle, but Skids noticed the second Getaway's expression shifted from 'interested' to 'confused'. “What's wrong with that? The guy saved Tailgate's life, so he obviously cares about the little chap,” he grinned and gently bopped Skids in the arm. “That's a bloody good trait to have in a friend, if you ask me.”

Skids fended off any further bops with his datapad. “I know you're not this dense, but fine, if you want to believe Cyclonus will be all smiles about your thing with Tailgate then go right ahead. Just don't come whining to me when he goes all hardened 'warrior of honour' on your aft...” 

“Pfft,” Getaway waved Skids off, dismissively and very much to his friend's amused exasperation. “Even with half your memory gone you're still a massive worry-wart. I will be charming. Tailgate will be equally, if not more, charming, and we'll have a lovely time together. You'll see.”

“Yep, we sure will...”

 

=-=-=-=-

Some time later, roughly ten minutes before the agreed upon date time, Getaway was outside Tailgate's hab-suite. Yes, he was early, but he believed in being prompt! It had nothing to do with Skids kicking them him out of their shared hab-suite. Nope, no connection at all. 

He pressed the door panel and waited for an answer. To pass the time, and not because he was nervous or anything, he rubbed at an imaginary scuff along his brow. Nothing else made a better first impression than a shiny finish and a straight badge.

The door opened with a soft 'whoosh' and Getaway gasped, taking an involuntary step or two away from the figure that stood in the doorway. There wasn't that much of a height difference between them but, somehow, Cyclonus managed to fill the entire doorway, and then some. Getaway strongly suspected no one(except maybe Ultra Magnus or Megatron) could out-loom Cyclonus. Maybe it was the horns, the somewhat demonic faceplate, or perhaps it was the perpetual air of contempt that hung over the ancient warrior... Who was still waiting for him to say something!

Slag!

Getaway straightened up and hit Cyclonus with his best, most charming smile. “Um, hi, evening. Is Tailgate ready? I'm here to pick him up.”

“He isn't here.” Cyclonus said, voice as grim as the Pit. “He went to the wash racks and has yet to return.”

“Oh... okay.”

…

Getaway, still smiling, stared at Cyclonus but the other bot just stared right back with those coal red optics of his. The silence stretched on for five seconds, then another, by the fifteen second mark Getaway was wondering if he'd missed some obscure ancient Cybertronian social cue, when Cyclonus finally spoke.

“I suppose you should come in,” he sighed, sounding just as grave as before.

“Thank you?” 

Getaway followed the jet and was unsurprised to find that the room looked just like every other hab-suite on board the Lost Light. Two recharge slabs, a desk, monitor and a window that looked out onto the infinite expanse of space. But it was obvious which recharge slab belonged to who. He couldn't see anyone but Tailgate decorating his living space with such cute little trinkets and knick-knacks. Some of them even looked hand crafted! Ah, he could so easily imagine sweet Tailgate hunkered over a work station, welder in hand and his visor narrowed in concentration as he worked on his latest project. He idly wondered if Tailgate would make something for him if he-

**TNNK!**

The sound of metal striking metal ripped Getaway from his daydream. The source? One Ancient Not-A-Decepticon driving the tip of a ridiculously large sword into the floor. When had Cyclonus even pulled out that thing?

And now he was just sitting there, staring at him...

Oh Primus! Skids was right. Why was he always right! Stupid theoretician and his stupid theorising.

No! 

No, it's okay. Keep calm, Getaway. Just because a bot pulls out a giant sword doesn't mean he intends to use it. Just play it cool. You can do this.

Self-bomp.

Getaway cleared his vents. “That's er, that's a pretty big sword you got there,” he paused, and then spread his hands apart, holding them parallel to each other. “Like really big.”

Nice one...

“So I've been told,” Cyclonus rumbled whilst laying the sword carefully, reverently, across his lap. “The Great Swords are somewhat of a rarity these days since Crystal City was destroyed. I like to keep the blade in peak condition,” as if on cue a whetstone was suddenly in Cyclonus' clawed hand. Sparks flew as that same stone was swept along the length of the blade in a single precise movement. “It would be a terrible shame if I was forced to tarnish it in anyway. Wouldn't it?” Cyclonus asked calmly, almost pleasantly, whilst testing the blade's edge against the pad of his thumb.

“Yes, a terrible shame...” Getaway could hear a faint rattling. Hopefully it wasn't him, because seasoned Special Op agents did NOT shake in their armour like untested rookies.

 _Shink_ the whetstone travelled over the blade again. “Marvellous, I trust that you will give me no such reason to do so?”

Getaway nodded, mutely, not trusting his own voice-box not to squeak if he even attempted a response.

Cyclonus smiled, or at least Getaway thought it was a smile. Cyclonus' unusual facial structure turned most of his expressions into scowls of varying levels of annoyance. “I'm glad that we see eye to eye on this matter.”

The crippling tension was momentarily broken by the sound of fast approaching foot-steps. Both Getaway and Cyclonus looked at the door, which had barely a chance to open, just as Tailgate practically threw himself through it. Water and cleaning solvent dripped off his frame, slowly forming a puddle underneath his feet.

Cyclonus silently, and without any prompting, tossed a towel to Tailgate.

“Sorry sorry sorry!” apology after apology spilled fourth from Tailgate whilst he used the towel to dry his plating. “The door on the wash rack jammed and it took forever to get it open.” his voice was a little muffled by the towel but that didn't seem to stop in the slightest. “Whirl managed to jimmy open the latch with his claw-hand thing. Or he could've been trying to punch it... Either way, I guess that's another one I owe him.”

Cyclonus snarled derisively and snatched back the now-damp towel. “Don't let him hear you say that. His ego is inflated enough without you filling it further.”

“Maybe, but I'd still be in there if it weren't for him. Brainstorm was trying to melt the lock with a concoction he made mixing bath salts together!”

“How... Okay, fine. I'll allow Whirl his victory.”

Whilst Getaway admired Tailgate's gleaming finish, he marvelled at the verbal exchange between Tailgate and Cyclonus and the ease with which they interacted with one another. There was a genuine affection between the two that he was, honestly, a little bit jealous of...

He felt a gentle touch to his forearm and looked down, and found himself lost in the vibrant blue of Tailgate's visor. “You alright?” the smaller bot asked, sounding and looking a little anxious.

It felt like Getaway's spark was trying to hug itself, odd as that description may sound. It was refreshing how Tailgate so honestly expressed himself. It was such a rarity to find someone who didn't hide their pain behind a war-built mask. He gently squeezed the smaller hand. “Me? Always, and doubly so now that you're here.”

Apprehension vanished as Tailgate's visor brightened with wicked delight. “Maybe we should get going. I think I've kept you waiting long enough.” he waved at Cyclonus as he started to lead Getaway towards the door. “I'll see you later, Cyclonus!”

Getaway let himself be dragged towards and out the door, but not before casting a sharp gaze over his shoulder at Cyclonus, who simply nodded.

“Enjoy your evening.”


	8. BLEEP! Part Two (Whirl & Swerve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the bleeping device deepens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to this fic ( http://archiveofourown.org/works/1048661/chapters/2228322 ) I'm starting to wonder if I should separate this into its own story. Opinions?

"Quiet night," Swerve murmured to himself whilst casting his visor around the bar.

Not to say that it wasn't busy. There was the usual clientèle, plus a few semi-regulars, but the majority of the gathered crowd seemed content with quiet conversation among themselves or, in the case of Tailgate and Cyclonus, one-sided conversation with the occasional nod. Even Whirl was behaving himself ... Which was a red flag, as far as Swerve was concerned. And, he was. Massively concerned!

He peered down the bar to where the Ex-Wrecker was seated, hunched over with his head resting on the counter. Whirl's single yellow optic, pinpoint narrow, was focused entirely on a small spherical object in front of him. Swerve had no idea what the object was, Whirl had brought it in with him, but it seemed to hold the other's attention more than any custom-built weaponry ever had. Maybe more.

Swerve was concerned (massively) but he hadn't quite worked his way up to panicked. Not yet. Panicked lay just over the horizon and Swerve was trying to stall its arrival with his rarely used common sense. True, he couldn't recall a time in living memory when he'd seen the former Wrecker so still and calm. Whirl was very much like his name, always in motion, and rarely with any direction or purpose.

But so what! Yeah, Whirl had found something he liked. Big deal. That didn't mean it was anything dangerous. Every bot needed a hobby.  
With a larg grin on his face, and dread in his spark, Swerve picked up a dirty glass, a probably just as filthy rag, and ambled on over to Whirl. “Hey, Whirly! Whatca got-” a claw, Whirl's claw, delicately pinched Swerve's lips together, just enough to silence him without actually causing any pain.

“Shh... Any moment now...” Whirl's whispered, not once taking his focus off the unidentified object.

“Whuurl?”

BLEEP!

Whirls' entire frame went limp. “Like clockwork,” he purred and sprawled across the counter-top, apparently not caring what he dislodged or crushed with his gangly limbs.

After wiping his mouth, now free of Whirl's pincer grip, Swerve gave the object of Whirl's approval(obsession?) a careful poke. “What is this?”

Whirl's optic had yet to move from The Object, but it twitched in its socket at Swerve's unsolicited touch. “Slagged if I know,” he muttered, curling a protective pincer around the mysterious device. He pulled it away from Swerve's stubby fingers. “I found it outside my room. Figured someone must've left it there.”

Swerve face broke out into his trademark smile. “Aw, that's sweet. A fan, maybe? Or perhaps a secret admirer?”

“I thought it was a bomb.”

The wash-rag slipped from Swerve's suddenly slack fingers.

“But I ruled that out after throwing it at the wall a few times.” Whirl scrapped the tip of a claw tenderly over the device' curved surface, as close to a loving caress as he could manage with his primitive appendages. 

“Now just you wait one-”

BLEEP

“-ing second! You chucked a potential bomb at the wall?”

“Yep, after I got bored with jumping on it.”

…

Whirl snorted, somehow, and tucked the device against his chest. He waved a claw at Swerve's stunned expression “Heeeey! Don't give me that look. It was the only way to be 100% sure it wasn't a bomb. Which it wasn't,” he tapped the device for emphasis.

Swerve couldn't believe he was hearing this. “What about Tailgate? He's an actual bomb disposal expert!”

“Short guy? Blew half my chest off?” The Ex-Wrecker cocked his head to one side. “Nah, my way was quicker.”

BLEEP

Swerve launched himself over the counter, landing with a solid clank that drew more than a few stares, shoved his shoulder against Whirl's hip and dug his heels firmly into the floor. “Out!” He shouted, summoning what little strength he had into pushing Whirl off his stool. “Get it out! Now!”

There was something inherently surreal in all this. Swerve wasn't used to being the voice of reason in any situation, his entire 'thing' was being the joker. There goes Swerve, good ole Swervester! You can always count on him for a laugh or two, even if it's at his expense.

Since when was he the sensible one!

Despite Swerve's best efforts, Whirl didn't budge, not even out of pity. “Oh, come off it! If was gonna boom it would have boomed on the third or fifth jump,” as if to prove his point, Whirl bounced the object on the counter. No explosion, but that just opened up more horrifying possibilities. It could be a multitude of other potential death devices, each more painful than the last, hidden within a harmless looking shell. Whirl reached down and tapped Swerve on the shoulder. “Anyway, I brought it in for a reason. You're an alloyologist, right?”

“Metallurgist.” Swerve sighed, shoulders sagging in obvious surrender. He'd need a truck to move Whirl and, unfortunately, Hoist had yet to grace the bar with his calming presence. Pity, Swerve suspected that the completely ordinary(some might say boring) engineer would be better equipped to deal with this situation.

Whirl rolled his optic and clamped a claw around Swerve's upper arm. The Bartender had baring any time to yelp in protest before he was unceremoniously dumped onto his own bar. “Same thing, different letters.” Whirl explained, as if Swerve didn't understand the intricacies of his own profession. “Anyway, since you're a metal doctor, maybe you can tell me what this Not-Bomb is.” the Not-Bomb was promptly thrust under Swerve's nose.

Swerve, spread eagle over the counter top, could only glare as he sat up and snatched the device from Whirl's unresisting grip. “Ugh! Fine! What can you tell me about it?” he asked, twisting his wrist this way and that, to better view the Thing from every angle.

“It goes Bleep”

BLEEP

“See.”

“I do... Anything else?”

“Oh yes, it keeps perfect time. It bleeps every three minutes, down to the exact second.”

Every inch of Swerve's diminutive being was itching to respond, possibly even work in a time related pun. But his seldom used instincts convinced him that maybe, just this once, it would be wiser to stay silent. Using both his instincts and his common sense in one day was, quite frankly, exhausting.

The device fit snugly in the palm of left his hand where he could easily scan it with the diagnostic equipment built into the casing of his right arm, feeding information directly into his processor for analysis. As he worked through the data, Swerve was surprised at how easily he slipped into the mask of the 'other' Swerve, the Metallurgist and scientist.

He loved Bar-tending, it had been a part of his long-held dream for millions of years, a dream that would be fully realised once Blurr returned his calls, but he'd be lying if he said there wasn't something deeply satisfying about the analytical process. Data rarely lied or laughed at you when it thought you weren't listening. And, when push came to shove, many an Autobot(and even a few Decepticons) would admit that Swerve was brilliant at his job, gifted even. Few could claim the same honour.

He swiftly sifted through his internal readouts,translating the results into something Whirl could easily understand. “Right, well if it is a bomb then it's a pretty shoddy one. The metal is pretty simple stuff, same material used for most mass-produced appliances, and I'm finding no evidence of combustible metals, not even trace junk. It's a basic geodesic dome structure, which explains how it survived you stomping on it, and...” he paused, mulling over the information.

“And?” The Ex-Wrecker asked, narrowing his single optic.

“It's blue,”Swerve replied, dryly, and casually tossed the Thing back to Whirl.

Whirl easily caught it between the tips of his claw. He looked down at it, blinked, or winked, it was sometimes hard to tell, and looked back to Swerve. “That's it?”

Swerve nodded and folded his arms over his chest. “Pretty much, it's a round blue metal thing, that bleeps every three minutes."

BLEEP

“But I already knew all that!” Whirl screeched.

He shrugged and held up his hands. “Sorry, Whirl. I'm not an engineer, or anything like that, why don't you try Brainstorm.” he snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering a rumour that had been floating around, “Or how about Perceptor? I hear our esteemed Captain gave Percy a project he would love to be distracted from.”

None of Serve's suggestions seemed to appeal to Whirl, because the other bot had picked up his Mystery/Thing/Not-Bomb and was already halfway towards the exit. “Whatever!” Whirl shouted over his shoulder. “I guess me and my Thing will take our business else where!”

“Pfft, fine by me.” Swerve huffed, shrugged his shoulders and scooped up the cleaning rag he'd dropped earlier.

Okay, the thing wasn't a bomb and, therefore, unlikely to explode any time soon. Surprisingly, he was a little disappointed by the results. All that mystery and build up for little more than a glorified timer, and a poorly designed one at that. There weren't any dials or controls on it, so you couldn't adjust the length of time between bleeps. Honestly, who would design and build a machine that only worked for three minutes at a time, and then there was the added mystery of its sudden appearance.

…

Swerve gasped and dropped the rag, again. “Thing Quest! No, wait. That's a rubbish name... Bleep Quest!"

Much better 


	9. Choice (Chromedome/Rewind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chromerome has made some questionable decicions in his lifetime. What difference will one more make.

“What's this?”

“What's what?” Chromedome asked, head and hands half buried in a box of to-be-sorted items. Rewind had only been on the Lost Light a few short months, after the Quantum duplicate incident, but he'd already managed to accumulate piles upon piles of, well, stuff! News reels, partial data snippets from corrupted hard drives, audio files, and even tiny earth books that needed a pair of fine tweezers to turn the delicate paper pages. Normally, the mess wasn't a problem, if anything it just added to Rewind's already quite substantial charm, but with a hab-suite inspection coming up it was time to give the clutter a good sort through.

Rewind snorted and walked towards Chromedome. “Well, if you pulled you head outta that box and had a quick look then maybe you could tell me,” Chromedome grinned, he didn't need to be looking to know that Rewind was rolling his optics, he could practically hear the whirling of delicate optical mechanisms from across the room.

Laughing lightly, Chromedome put the box aside and turned to face his Conjunx Endura, curious to see what had the other bot so baffled. The smaller bot raised his hand, and Chromedome felt his spark freeze in its chamber.

“It's one of my mine,” Rewind turned the innocuous black datastick over in his hands, inspecting it from all angles. "But, er, I don’t think it's 'mine' mine.” he frowned, probably struggling to find the right words to describe his quantum double.

 _His_ Rewind.

But, this Rewind was also his Rewind.

And... And he deserved to know the truth about the datastick and the final message it held within its databank.

Didn't he?

“Domey...?”

In that instant Chromedome, for better or worse, made his choice.

“It's nothing,” he replied after a quick forced reboot of his vocoder. “Probably just a spare blank he had lying around.” he stood up, surprising himself with how little his limbs shook. Turning back to the boxes, he quickly located the one container in particular.

Rewind's visor dimmed. “You sure? You seemed a little startled when you saw it.” he sounded doubtful but Chromedome was relieved when Rewind handed over the datastick when prompted to.

Chromedome rubbed his thumb along one edge of the datastick. It was perfectly smooth save for a slight indent near its middle. A mark worn down from replay after replay and near constant handling.

“I'm sure,” he said, dropping the datastick into the box with 'junk' scrawled across its side in his own messy handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling to write this for a while. I don't want to paint Chromedome as a bad guy because I truly believe he loves Rewind with all of his heart, but it's been proven time and time again that poor Domey is a guy who struggled with his emotions and how to properly deal with them.
> 
> I fully intend to continue this in another drabble.


	10. Perfect (Chromedome/Prowl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumbler had the whole evening planned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short Chromedome/Prowl ficlet for Deceticonsensual :)
> 
> Uuuugh, there is nothing more mentally exhausting than remembering to type "Tumbler" instead of "Tumblr".
> 
> **Warning for the very tiny mention of blood.**

“Krimnable?”

Tumbler squinted at the screen. That couldn't be right.

“Creaminable...?”

Close but no cygar.

Tumbler rebooted his optics for what must have been the third time that evening. When that failed to bring the words into focus, he sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “I think we need to take a break,” he grumbled, wearily. “I've forgotten how to-” he paused, then frowned, “word?”

There was a short, quiet 'humph' from the desk opposite him. Prowl didn't even look up from his datapad when he shot back with an apathetic, “We'll never finish this if you keep insisting on finding pointless distractions,” he swiped his finger across the screen, no doubt having sent off yet another completed file.

Tumbler's dull optics returned to his own screen. Hard to argue with that. Actually, It was hard to argue anything with Prowl, he had this annoying tendency to be right about 87.4% of the time(a little factoid he'd once shared with Tumbler) but there was no escaping the harsh truth that, until this paperwork was finished, neither of them were going anywhere.

He sighed. This evening was supposed to be perfect. Clock out, whiz by Ole Leaky's to pick up a half portion of jellied energon sticks, and then a quiet night in with the tele-viewer. A normal enough evening, nothing particularly special, but what made it perfect was that he'd convinced Prowl to join him! Just an normal evening with the pair of them doing normal, coupley things together.

All those plans, gone, because some bots just couldn't handle their drink, or poorly delivered insults. Six bots brought in on multiple counts of drunk and disorderly conduct, one count of assault against an officer(although the perp swore by Primus that he was aiming for the guy standing next to Officer Wheelbolt) and destruction of private property. Apart from collecting evidence, witness statements and getting Officer Wheelbolt to the nearest clinic, each perp needed booked and processed. All that, added up, effectively wiped out any chance of a restful or romantic evening.

If only they had waited just thirteen minutes before starting their barroom brawl. Thirteen more minutes meant it wouldn't have been his or Prowl's problem... He looked up at the large digital clock hanging on the precinct wall as another minute ticked away.

“It's not like that,” Tumbler gestured to the empty bullpen around them. “ It's too quiet in here. I can't focus.”

Prowl finally raised his head. His expression, as always, was hard to read but Tumbler assumed the other Detective was confused but attempting hiding it well. “You work better when surrounded by noise and distraction?”

“Well, sort of. Yeah,” he leaned to the side and pulled open his desk draw. “I can block out everything and concentrate on what needs to get done.” he pushed aside a box of back-up datasticks. He knew there was a pack of rust sticks in here somewhere-

“And you can't do that now, because...?”

Tumbler snorted. “It's not the same”, he cringed inwardly at the lameness of his reply but he couldn't be bothered to explain further. Honestly, he wasn't sure he could explain it. He glanced at the clock. Five minutes had passed by in an instant.

Prowl tapped off another report. “You're upset.”

The words, however mildly spoken, were enough to make Tumbler pause. “I'm not upset.” As much as he needed the distraction, he wasn't in the mood to deal with Prowl's tendency towards over-analysis. At least he'd found the rust sticks, buried underneath last months copy of _'Tires and Treads_ '. 

Prowl wasn't convinced, “Yes, you are. You keep looking at the-

“I said, I'm not upset!” He slammed the draw, hoping Prowl would get the hint and stop with all his prodding and poking. It did, but not in way he'd hoped. Pain filled his neural net “Fragging Primus below!”

Prowl was suddenly on his feet. “What happened?”

Tumbler muttered a curse under his a breath. He shoved his throbbing right hand under his armpit and squeezed it tight against his chest. “Nothing happened!”

Prowl was already at his side, “Let me look.” he said, smoothly, as he laid a careful hand across Tumbler's shoulder. His other hand was held out towards his partner, palm up.

Tumbler twisted away from Prowl's reaching hand, “I just trapped it in the draw It's nothing to worry about,”

“That's not the point.”

Tumbler locked optics with Prowl. Molten gold versus cool blue. He could probably stare the other bot down - was actually one of the few people who  _could_  - but that required energy that he just didn't have to spare. He was tired, cranky and, now, sore. Things were miserable enough without adding “Prowl is mad at me” to the list.

He dimmed his optics and surrendered his hand to Prowl's outstretched one. Prowl, ever gracious in victory, simply nodded as he gently inspected the injured hand.

The damage was minimal. Just some crumpled plating along the back of his hand, and a small tear in the minorenergon line running through his thumb. His arm tingled, a sure sign that his self-repair was already at work. In a hour or so the damage would be completely gone, but Tumbler was amazed at how thorough Prowl was being. Each and every finger was gently examined before nimble fingers ghosted across his knuckles and up his hand to his circle his wrist. His hand tingled again when Prowl rubbed his thumb back down along the center of his palm, Tumbler suspected the sensation had nothing to do with his self-repair...

Tumbler was filled with the sudden need to fill the silence. “Maybe you could kiss it better?” he chirped, wiggling his dented fingers.

“Do you have any idea how many micro-techorganisms are contained in our oral solvent? Over five hundred different types have been recorded, fifty of which could cause serious-”

“Joking!”

Using the same tenderness, Prowl pulled a cloth from his subspace and held it against the tear, effectively stemming the flow of energon. “I'm sorry about tonight. I know you were looking forward to it.” Lips pressing into a narrow line, Prowl sighed through his vents, “I was, too.”

Tumbler looked up from their clasped hands, his visor bright with surprise. “You were?”

Prowl chuckled, a sound half the precinct was convinced he wasn't capable of making. “What happened tonight is no one's fault, it's just part of the job. We can reschedule for another night.”

“I know, I know... It's just... Tonight was going to be perfect.” Tumbler said, wistfully. Yearning for the night that would never be.

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was going to be a disaster. We might have hit traffic on the way to your place. Or maybe your entire residential block suffered a power outage or burnt to the ground,”

Tumbler blinked. This conversation had taken a bit of an odd turn, “Er, okay? Your point?”

The smallest of smiles curved his lips, and something almost like tenderness had entered his optics, “My point, as much as it pains me to say it, is that you can't plan for everything. Something can always go wrong. It's not the end of the world.” Even his voice lost it's usual edge.

Once again Tumbler remembered why Prowl was impossible to argue with. He was rarely ever wrong. Sometimes it could be annoying, but then there were moments like this, where Prowl's cool, calm logic cut through Tumbler's thick head and smoothed the frazzled wiring beneath, “When did you get so good at this sort of thing?” he asked, only partially joking. His Partner wasn't nearly as robotic and humorless as their co-workers made him out to be, but he would be lying if he said his Partner didn't struggle with the softer emotions.

Prowl removed the cloth which had served its purpose well, the bleeding had all but stopped. “Please, don't confuse rational thinking for comfort,” the edge was back but it was somewhat dulled by the smile still on Prowl's face. He picked up one of the many datapads littering Tumbler's desk and gave it a quick glance. “Hm, If I help you we might just make Leaky's before closing.”

Tumbler pressed in close and curled an arm around Prowl's trim waist. “Sounds good to me.”


End file.
